


Something New Every Day

by ilien



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Some Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilien/pseuds/ilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft comes home drunk at 3AM. It’s not as scary as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something New Every Day

**Author's Note:**

> There’s that thing on tumblr where people answer questions about their OTP. Like, “Who feeds the fish?” and “Who normally cooks?”
> 
> And although different people usually have different answers, when it comes to “Who comes home drunk at 3AM?”, Mystrade shippers usually agree that it’s obviously Greg. 
> 
> That's why I just had to write a fic about Mycroft coming home drunk at 3AM.

“Are you okay?” 

Mycroft didn’t look okay. Middle of the night or not, Greg’d never seen Mycroft like that: without his jacket, his waistcoat half-unbuttoned, no brolly in sight, hair ruffled, eyes dark and tired. On top of that, Mycroft looked like he was putting some serious effort into keeping upright. Greg rushed to his side, trying not to think what it was that had to have happened to make Mycroft look like this.

“My, are you–“

“I like it when you call me that.” Mycroft gave him a sloppy smile. Once close enough to Mycroft, Greg could smell the whiskey. He felt unbelievably relieved. The world hadn’t ended. Mycroft was simply pissed.

“Are you drunk?” He asked, although the answer was pretty obvious.

“’f course ‘m drunk, Gregory, do keep up,” Mycroft answered, grabbing Greg’s shoulder. The bastard could barely stand and still was annoyed with obvious questions. Figures.

Lestrade half-carried Mycroft to the couch, helped him out of his waistcoat, and only then asked him: “What happened?”

“Everything. N’thing. It’s classified,” Mycroft replied, and then elaborated, “’t was a bad day. Week. Month. Over now. Last. Agreement. Signed. Today–Yesterday. No war.”

“So, you had to go and get drunk because that’s how you – what? – celebrate your success?” They’d spent a better part of the year living together, and Greg had never seen Mycroft drunk. 

“D’nt go anywhere. My office.”

“Wait a minute. You mean, you got drunk in your office? Alone?”

“Don’t have friends. Don’t drink with Sherlock.” 

Greg pictured Mycroft and Sherlock getting pissed together and was oddly grateful that they didn’t.

“You have me,” he said, “I’m always at your service when you wanna get smashed.”

Mycroft smiled at that. Greg liked that smile – careless and wide, so unlike Mycroft at all. He’d have to find a way to induce this smile without alcohol. 

“I know. “ Mycroft said, “You’re always there. Don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Well, guess what?” Greg kissed his forehead, “I just have. And I’m not running screaming.”

Mycroft smiled again. “That’s good,” he said.

“And anyway, we live together. How did you expect me not to notice you’re drunk?”

“You didn’t before,” Mycroft shrugged and then nuzzled Greg’s neck. “Were sleeping.”

“Wait a minute.” It was pretty hard to maintain a conversation when Mycroft was nuzzling his neck and unbuttoning his shirt, so Greg pulled away. “What do you mean ‘before’? How often do you get pissed?”

Mycroft frowned and shrugged. “Dunno. Last time… after Morocco. And when you were fine after that shot. And… that’s all this year.”

Greg recalled all the events. Mycroft’s trip to Morocco was three months ago, in June, and Greg got shot in April. “So, once every couple of months. “ Not nearly as often as Greg went for a pint (and ended up drinking way more than that) with John.

Mycroft nodded and bent down to untie his shoelaces. 

“Let’s get you to bed, shall we?” Greg smiled at Mycroft’s fumbling and helped him with the shoes. Then he helped his boyfriend up and half-carried the man to the bedroom. If asked, he’d never admit that Mycroft was, in fact, perfectly able to walk on his own, but Greg sort of liked the idea of helping him. And it looked like Mycroft sort of liked the idea of being helped. It was odd to see Mycroft not declining help.

Once in the bedroom, Mycroft took off his own shirt and reached out to unbutton Greg’s, again. This wouldn’t do.

“Oh no. I’m not shagging you when you’re drunk.”

“This is illogical, Gregory. We’ve been having sex for a long time. We’ve been sharing a bed for eight months and six days. I’ve always more than enjoyed it and never rejected your advances. There is no indication that my consent may be biased.” It’s astonishing how Mycroft can still form long sentences that sort of make sense.

Only sort of, though. “I know. I’m not having sex with you, anyway.” 

Mycroft sighed and pouted. “Fine. I shall sleep then.”

“Taking your trousers off could help.” Greg grinned. 

Mycroft sighed again and stood up to take his trousers off. If Greg didn’t know the man any better, he’d swear Mycroft made a show of unbuttoning and slowly taking off first his trousers, then his shirt, and then the vest and the pants. And then he really, definitely made a show of turning his naked back to Greg and bending to fold his clothes on the chair.

Usually Mycroft was much more subtle in his seduction. Greg licked his lips. “Nice butt.” He grinned. “But I’m still not shagging you. C’mere, you need some sleep.”

Mycroft’s pout was hilarious. One could think Greg just stole his favourite ice cream, no less. Greg raised the blanket and Mycroft climbed under it, still pouting. Greg kissed his forehead and stood up to take off his own clothes.

“I don’t… do this very often, you know.” Mycroft said suddenly. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

Mycroft looked doubtful but said nothing.

“I’m really not.”

“I only do it when appropriate.”

“My. It’s never appropriate to drink alone.”

Mycroft sighed. 

Greg would never admit it to anyone, let alone to Mycroft himself, but at that moment he felt something akin of pity. Sympathy. Yes, sympathy was a better word. This amazing man spent his entire life making the world a better place, and now he doesn’t even consider that there can be people around him who want him. Sober, drunk, happy, sad – any and every way he is.

“I know you’re not used to having friends. I know. But can you.. at least, consider inviting me next time? If our schedules match?”

Mycroft nodded and hummed something drowsily as Greg climbed into their bed and snuggled closer. 

“Do you really like it when I call you ‘My’?”

“M-hmm.” 

“That’s… good to know. It’s cute.”

“I shall deny everything tomorrow, you realize.”

That’s Mycroft, all right.

“I know, love.”

Mycroft mumbled something that summoned suspiciously like “Don’t push it.” Greg decided to let it slide.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry it’s not betaed or britpicked. Please feel free to comment with mistakes and concrit.


End file.
